


Sharing Is Caring, Which Is Gay

by missmichellebelle



Series: Grumpy Barista [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Allusions to abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Coffee Shops, Denial of Feelings, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 08:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2421575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a week, Mickey stops looking at the door at all. It’s never who he wants it to be, anyway—not that he wants it to be anyone.</p><p>Or anything.</p><p><i>Fuck</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharing Is Caring, Which Is Gay

**Author's Note:**

> No Ian this time, and probably way too much of an OC, but... Sometimes OCs just get the job done, all right?
> 
> Plus I'm not 100% sure how Ian is going to come back into play just yet. I guess we'll just have to see~

Ian doesn’t come in the next night, or the night after that.

Or any other night for the rest of the week, in fact.

Not that Mickey notices, or gives a shit. Not that he’s been strung as tightly as a violin since the whole unorthodox latte lesson thing (and what the _fuck_ had gotten into him that night that he even let that _happen?_ ). Not that Mickey has been back and forth between wanting to track the redhead down and beat whatever he _thinks_ he knows out of him, and chewing his lip while throwing glances at the café door and hoping that Ian will be the next customer to walk in.

(He isn’t.)

Mickey hasn’t done any of that shit. He’s not some pussy little bitch. He doesn’t go looking for Ian because he doesn’t know the fucker’s last name or where to even start searching, and he looks at the door because it opens and it’s a fucking subconscious reaction or some shit. And after a week, he stops looking at all. It’s never who he wants it to be, anyway—not that he wants it to be anyone

Or anything.

 _Fuck_.

*

It’s late afternoon on a Wednesday nearly two weeks later, and Mickey is clocking in for one of the few eight hour shifts he gets a week and therefore trading places with the one coworker he can stand (and therefore never actually works with, because life is just fucked that way).

“You just missed your biggest fan,” Daisy tells him with a grin as she pulls her apron and hat off in one practiced sweep. Her hair is platinum blond, and the last time Mickey had seen her, it had been lilac. This chick changes her hair color so often she gives Mandy a run for her money.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Mickey grumbles, taking the apron she’s holding out to him and slotting it over is own neck. He doesn’t wear the hat though—it’s stupid as fuck. He used to forego the apron, too, until mocha powder exploded all over him. That one shirt still reeks of the shit.

“Your not-so-secret admirer,” Daisy continues in this wheedling, sickly-sweet voice she adopts when she’s apparently teasing people, all the while fluttering her eyelashes. At Mickey’s continued blank, unamused stare, however, the whole façade drops to annoyance with a single roll of her eyes. “Let me put this in Mickey terms. Tall redhead, deep voice, _absolute_ stunner.” She fans herself. “I’d wait in line for a turn to ride that, if, you know, I was his type of customer.” She gives Mickey this look like he obviously knows what she’s talking about (which he _doesn’t_ ), but he’s momentarily distracted by the fact that he only knows one redhead.

Ian had been here?

“Wait, what?” Mickey asks as the rest of her statement catches up with him, his eyebrows pinched together. Daisy’s stare turns more and more nonplussed.

“I swear you view the world through shutter shades. Ian, you dumbass.”

“What the fuck are shutter shades?” Mickey makes a completely perplexed and mutually frustrated face. “Wait, no—what did you mean, his type of customer?” The strings of Mickey’s apron are still dragging on the ground, and he distractedly reaches for them and attempts to tie them just so he doesn’t look invested in this conversation.

Because he isn’t.

Daisy quirks a single eyebrow.

“I don’t have a cock,” she states plainly, her mouth quirking at the corner, and Mickey spins around to face the lockers under the guise that he’s frustrated with the stupid apron strings, and not because he’s trying to hide the sudden alarmed expression on his face. Had that fucking firecrotch _said something?_ “He just seems to be a fan.”

“And you fucking know this _how?_ ” When Mickey feels scared, or threatened, anger is not a far stretch. He wasn’t angry seconds ago, and now the only thing that he remotely feels like doing is punching a dent into the cheap metal before him.

“Woman’s intuition,” Daisy replies loftily. “Or, you know, the fact that Tiffany’s been pushing her rack up in his face for, like, two months, and no cigar. He’s either gay or _blind_.”

Two _months_. Hold up a fucking second. Mickey’s anger twists into angry confusion. That math doesn’t fucking add up.

“What?”

“I’m just saying, have you _seen_ Tiffany’s tits?” Daisy pops her lips together. “I mean, girl’s a fucking piece of work, but I would.”

“Good for you?” What the fuck does that have to do with _anything_? “Red has been coming in here for _two months?_ ”

“Ian?” Daisy clarifies, as if Mickey could possibly be talking about some _other_ redhead they both happen to know (like _what the fuck?_ ). “ _Way_ longer than that, dude. He’s one of our solid morning regulars, has been for…” Daisy blows air out thoughtfully. “Shit, I’m not even sure. A long fucking time. But yeah, he comes in every morning at 7, usually in some sort of workout clothing.” She makes a forlorn face. “Can’t wait for summer to come back. He might not bat for my team, but _damn_ does that boy rock a pair of shorts.”

Mickey doesn’t know why Daisy is still talking, like he gives a fuck about how Ian has apparently been a customer for-fucking-ever and wears running shorts or whatever. Why the fuck would Mickey need to know any of this?

This is the part where he’d flip her off and tune her out, but… He doesn’t. He just let’s her keep rambling and ignores the fact that his shift started five minutes ago.

“Ethan told me about how he started coming in at the end of the night, and ordering lattes. But lattes _specifically_ from you.” She leans a little closer to Mickey, and he instinctively leans away—she doesn’t seem to notice. “You put fucking drugs in them or something? You can tell me.” She seems so dead serious that Mickey sputters a bit.

“What—no, you fucking crazy bitch.” Who the _fuck_ traffics drugs through coffee? Talk about ineffective. She plumps her lip out in a pout, like she’s disappointed, and then sighs.

“Then you’ll have to tell me how you do it, because I offered Ian a latte this morning—figured he’s switched drinks, because he’s usually just a large coffee sort of guy, you know? Anyway, I offered him one this morning, and he like… Flipped the fuck out? Darted out the door without even ordering.” She’s staring at Mickey like he has some sort of explanation, and he levels her with a look that says he has no fucking idea.

He’s not the kid’s alien translator or some shit.

“Unless latte is, like, slang for fucking,” Daisy muses, and Mickey’s entire body runs cold. His fists clench and the muscles in his leg tense—his body waiting for him to choose _fight_ or _flight_.

“‘Scuse me?” Mickey mutters darkly. Daisy seems completely oblivious to Mickey’s sudden sharp turn in mood.

“Are you guys, y’know—“ She makes a lewd thrusting gesture with her lips. “Fucking,” she tacks on, like her pantomime wasn’t fucking clear enough.

Bile rises so quickly up Mickey’s throat that he feels like he might violently vomit right then and there. But he’s used to the feeling, used to the fear, used to the disgust—he swallows it all back down. He’s used to that, too.

“The _fuck_ are you—“ Mickey hisses, and he doesn’t realize he’s moved forward until Daisy is holding her hands up in a placating gesture and nearly touching him.

“ _Woah_. Easy there, cowboy. I come in peace.” Her eyebrows furrow in this worried way that makes Mickey look away from her, eyes downcast. “Just wanted to give congratulations where congratulations are due, dude.” Daisy ducks to catch his eye. “He’s one grade-A piece of ass.”

“I’m not a fucking fag,” Mickey spits, and steps away from her—the only thing that keeps him from shoving her to the ground, or up against the wall, is how he thinks of Mandy and all the _shit_ she’s been through.

Fuck Daisy for reminding him so much of his sister.

Daisy’s eyes scan him, expression flickering from searching, to confused, to thoroughly unimpressed. “You fucking with me?”

“Do I look like I take it up the ass, bitch?” Mickey growls, drawing his shoulders back and puffing up his chest.

“I _never_ said anything about positions, mouse boy—“ Mickey mouths _mouse boy_ in confusion, “—Although I’m definitely up to revisit that conversation later. Like.” She wiggles her eyebrows salaciously. “But if that was your endearingly crude way of asking me how I know you’re gay—well, technically I _don’t_. It’s a hunch. But given that we’ve had this whole conversation while I’ve been standing here in my bra and you haven’t so much as given the ladies a _glance_ , I’d say it’s a pretty heavy-handed hunch.” Daisy pets her cleavage soothingly. “There, there, girls. Don’t take it to heart.”

Shit. She _is_ in just her bra and jeans, and how the fuck had Mickey not even realized that? More importantly, when the fuck had she taken her shirt _off?_ Mickey kind of prides himself on knowing what the fuck is going on with his surroundings, and somehow he’d _missed_ this—the fuck is going on with him?

“He’s really gay,” Daisy continues in a whisper to her tits, and befuddlement turns to anger—sharp, defensive, and terrified as it pricks up Mickey’s spine. His knuckles are turning white where his fists are clenched.

“I’m really going to break that expensive fucking nose of yours,” Mickey threatens, even though it’s empty. Even though he knows he wouldn’t, but _she_ doesn’t fucking need to know that.

“Hey now! You leave my nose out of this.” She gives him a pointed glare. “Just because you’re in fucking Narnia,” Daisy mutters, and Mickey feels like he’s about to spit fire if this chick doesn’t _shut the fuck up_.

“Look, just because your tits are so fucking small that I can’t see them doesn’t make me a fucking ass monkey, all right?”

“Now that was just uncalled for,” Daisy gasps, but the offense is mocking and disingenuous. “You want to be this way, Mick? _Fine_. I’ll fucking prove it to you.” Her eyes are downright challenging, and Mickey glowers at her as she turns away from him and calls, “Hey, Ethan!” over her shoulder.

Clark Kent pushes into the back room, the word, “Yeah,” halfway out of his mouth before his eyes snap to Daisy’s half-naked body.

“ _Jesus_ , Daisy.” His face is red almost instantly, and he stares at Daisy’s chest for a good 20 seconds before some fucking mechanism must click in his head and he’s slapping a hand over his eyes. “Would you just—“ his mouth fumbles around silent words, and rather than finding them, he stumbles backwards out of the swinging doors.

Daisy grins victoriously, and then turns to look at Mickey, popping her hip and putting her hand on it.

“See?”

“The fuck am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Ethan’s reaction? That’s how most straight guys react to seeing me in my undies.” She stretches her bra strap with her finger and let’s it snap back—as if Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. This girl requires way too many fucking visual aids. “Well, usually there isn’t so much blushing, but I’m pretty sure Ethan is a virgin and he has a massive boner from me.” Her face turns contemplative. “Not like, just right this second, but in general. He turns red every time I look at him.” She wrinkles her nose. “Wouldn’t be surprised if all of that blood was just… Gushing out of his nose right now. Like… All over the place.” She mimes it with her hands (again with the fucking visuals). “Have fun cleaning that up.”

“What the fuck are you even talking about anymore?” Mickey groans. Being able to stand this chick is quickly turning into loathing.

Daisy clicks her tongue against the top of her mouth, and then sighs heavily, running fingers through her hair.

“If we were better friends and I wasn’t thoroughly convinced that you’d break my neck just on reflex, I’d grab your dick right now.” Her look tells him that she’s completely serious, and Mickey’s face drops in shock. “As it were, I have a class to get to.” She pulls a t-shirt out of her bag and slips it over her head. “And I’m not exactly majoring in psych, so I can’t sit here and help you through all this self-denial bullshit. But I’m in your corner, Mickey.”

She shoulders her bag, and looks at him, and it’s that soft, sad, resigned look that Mickey knows and that makes him sick with hate.

It’s _pity_.

“I’ll keep your secret, or whatever,” she says, her voice soft and genuine, and then her features turn sharp again. “So please don’t show up at my apartment in the middle of the night with a gun or something. My roommate will shit a goat.”

Daisy takes a few steps backwards and gives him a salute, and then turns to leave, and Mickey stares at her back and rubs the corner of his mouth absentmindedly.

“Hey, flower princess,” Mickey calls, and she stops but doesn’t turn around. “He, uh… He seem strange, or anything?” He looks away, staring at the wall so he doesn’t have to deal with whatever expression might end up aimed in his direction. “The redhead?”

There’s a few beats of silence that feel like hours to Mickey, and he wishes he could pull the words back in—shred them, light them up, and sweep the ashes into nonexistence.

“I mean. He was, you know, _Ian_. It’s not like I know much about the guy other than what kind of coffee drinks.” Another beat of silence. “Running away from the mere suggestion of a latte is definitely something I’d categorize as strange, though.” She hums contemplatively, and Mickey glances towards her—she still isn’t looking at him. “Funny story, though. He pretty much asked me the same thing about you, except that he had the fucking balls to just ask me straight up how you were doing.” Daisy’s eyes finally find him and pin him in place. “Nothing gay about caring for people, Mickey.”

Mickey chews his bottom lip, eyes darting around, and all he can thank is, _Yeah, it is_. He throws the heaviest glare he can manage in Daisy’s direction, but by the time he has the mind to do so, she’s already pushed her way through the doors.

“Shit,” Mickey utters into the empty room, leaning back against the lockers and feeling a sense of satisfaction at the rattling _clang_ sound they make in response. He has the idea to follow through on the urge from earlier, and to beat the lockers until his own hands are bruised and bloody, but doesn’t—settles with a sharp kick to one instead, and still isn’t quite sure where the urge fucking came from in the first place.

And he just keeps wondering what the fuck Daisy told Ian about _him_.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/99445212840/sharing-is-caring-which-is-gay)


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